The Last Strike: Book 5 of The Last War Series

by Peter Bostrom

  “And yet,” said Turvey— he leaned in, emphasized every word—“the woman who did that is at odds with the woman described in this report.” He pulled out another piece of paper. “Or in this one, from your gunner, Junior Lieutenant Wiley. Or from any of the other numerous reports I’ve read. And from the preliminary hearings—”he relaxed back into his seat, hands behind his head—“It is my understanding that you have not yet presented a justification for what you did, only that you have confessed to the crimes you have been charged with.”

  “Right,” said Guano. “Because I’m guilty.”

  “That is beyond doubt. The only question is why.” Turvey smiled slightly. “Lieutenant, it is my firm belief that you were not yourself when you committed these crimes.”

  “Right,” she said again, frustration mounting. “Because I’m cray-zee. Loco. Batshit.” The implication of it started to settle in. Guano… batshit. Eerily prophetic.

  Turvey shook his head. “No, no. What I mean is: you were literally not yourself.” He pulled up the CT scan again. “These lesions were found in your prefrontal cortex, the area of the brain just behind the forehead. It normally supports higher-order capabilities such as strategizing, categorization, and prioritizing. Now, I’m not a medical doctor, but I have it on good authority that damage to this area can cause not only confusion and disordered thinking, but even psychosis under the right circumstances.”

  “It wasn’t psychosis,” said Guano, her mouth drying up. “It was… I was awake. I just couldn’t… I just felt my hands doing things that I didn’t want them to, you know? And I couldn’t even—couldn’t even say anything. It was like…” She put her hands in her lap. “You know when you go and open up the fridge by habit, yeah? And you’re just left there, staring, like why the hell did I even do that? It’s like that.”

  “That,” said Turvey, his eyes lighting up, “is exactly what could be observed if these smudges are what I think they are.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Nanobots. Tiny machines.” Turvey pointed to the CT-scan. “Little tiny bots that release extremely precise, extremely controlled doses of dopamine and other chemicals directly into your brain.”

  She narrowed her eyes skeptically. “You think little robots in my brain are controlling me? Like… some kind of puppet?”

  “Nothing quite so precise,” he said, “but in a way, yes. Controlled in the same way that humans without these devices develop things like unconscious habits, nervous ticks, or brainstem reflexes. To put it another way, you don’t think about your heart beating and can’t stop it if you tried. This is the same mechanism, sort of, but way more advanced. The human brain is, after all, one big chemical reaction.”

  “Okay,” said Guano, cautiously. “If that’s true, then…why did they stop? Why haven’t I had another episode since I got locked up?”

  “There are always limits to technology. I assume, in this case, the range of these things is pretty limited—they are quite small, after all. Or, because they’re so tiny, the bots can only harvest a small amount of chemicals at once, and have to store them up. They probably have a set of pre-programmed urges within you, and then new instructions are sent as needed.” Turvey took out another photograph. It showed a strange device, small and metal with an antenna. “This was found in the wreckage of the Stennis. The computers couldn’t place the technology as part of the ship, and it doesn’t appear to originate from any known nation.”

  She recognized it immediately. “I put that there,” she said. “During one of my fugue states.”

  “EOD thought it was a bomb. Wanted to dispose of it with semtex, but fortunately Intel wanted to see what they could learn and had it x-rayed and cut open.” He paused. “It’s not a bomb. It’s a radio relay—for your nanobots, presumably.”

  “Right.” It made sense. But something else didn’t. She scowled. “How did those things get into my head anyway?”

  “Well, most likely during your time in that tank. It seems like the most logical opportunity. We’re still investigating.” He carefully placed the photographs back in his briefcase

  She ran her fingers through her hair. “So you’re saying that when I shot Roadie, when I shot Flatline—”

  “You weren’t yourself.”

  Guano hesitated, then sighed. “Okay. So, if this is true, so what? What use is it?”

  “Who knows.” Turvey snapped his brief case shut. “I’m not about to promise anything. All I need is your approval to look into this.” He stood up briskly and adjusted his suit coat. “Surely it’s worth investigating, isn’t it?

  Some part of her knew that it was, and yet, she hesitated.

  Roadie was dead. Flatline was dead. Someone had to pay for that, and she had pulled the trigger.

  “Fine,” she said, releasing a long, low sigh. “Do what you need to do.”

  “Okay.”

  Turvey signaled the guards and left her cell. She was alone again with nothing but her thoughts.

  When they gave her the callsign Guano, her wing had probably never actually considered that she would spend the rest of her days in a military prison. Or maybe they had.

  Either way, she doubted Turvey could accomplish anything meaningful. She was stuck here. Guano’s eyes drifted back to the steel sink, slowly panning around the four walls of her cell, her new home. Did she deserve to be here?

  For the first time since waking up in the place, some tiny part of her dared to wonder whether she might actually see the outside of it.

  Chapter Four

  Bridge

  HMS Caernarvon

  Outer reaches

  Tiberius System

  Captain Pippa Spears drummed her fingers on her command chair impatiently. “Is that them?” she asked for the second time. “I want an ID on that ship.”

  “Working,” said Blackwood, typing furiously. “Sensor data is limited at this range.”

  The monitors flashed warnings as the ship powered up its Z-space engine. The vessel was little more than a pixelated, grainy mess at this distance, but the Caernarvon’s sensors could hardly miss the massive build up of energy that signaled the completion of a Z-space translation.

  “Dammit all!” Spears felt her fingers involuntarily tighten around the armrest in frustration. “They’re going to get—” In a bright white flash, each monitor washed out, and when the glow faded away, there was nothing left but empty space. “—away.”

  A tense silence flooded the bridge.

  “My apologies, Ma’am,” said Blackwood, sighing and straightening her back. “And the results are in: the ship’s computers estimate that there’s only a six percent chance it was the Aerostar.”

  Why did they run, then? she mused, slowly running her fingers through her hair. Although there was a potentially obvious answer, there were so many scavenger ships out there, smuggling ships, mercenary ships… ships that would have every reason in the galaxy to ignore their hails, power up their Z-space engines, and leap away from a Royal Navy ship showing interest in them.

  “It appears I need a bigger ship,” she muttered. “Or at least a hint as to where those blasted Reardons have gotten to.”

  “We could,” said Blackwood, her tone gilded in hesitation, “try Mattis again. He might know.”

  Naturally. She acknowledged the possibility that Mattis might have some kind of indication where those slippery ne’er-do-wells had gotten to with their CIA officer friend, but—“No,” she said, with all the finality she could muster. “We’ve discussed this, Commander, and I won’t be leaning on the good captain unless we absolutely have to.” Her voice softened. “He’s been through enough already.”

  “Aye aye, Ma’am.” Blackwood seemed to want to say more, but protocol stopped her.

  A good CO always leaned heavily on their XO. Spears always had time for Blackwood’s council. “A word in my ready room, Commander? Wouldn’t mind briefly chewing the fat with you on this.”

  “Of course.” Blackwood’s reli
ef was clear. “I’ll put a kettle on.”

  Spears stood, turning to her communications officer. “Mister Locke, you have the bridge.”

  With protocol observed, the two women went into Spears’s spartan but functional ready room. Blackwood made her way to the black and red kettle beside the sink in the tiny kitchen, flicking the switch. It immediately began to hum.

  “Very well,” said Spears, folding her hands behind her. “Seems like you’ve got something to say, Commander.”

  “I do. Permission to speak freely, Captain?”

  Well, now this was an unusual request. Blackwood, although a proper officer, was usually not hesitant about speaking her mind. “Granted,” said Spears.

  Blackwood shuffled her stance, obviously cautious with her words. “What are we doing out here, Captain? This Aerostar… these Reardon brothers. Why are we hunting them?”

  It was time. Blackwood needed to know. Spears chose her words carefully. “As you well know, in the aftermath of the battle against the Stennis, the Aerostar was hanging around like a bad smell. We knew what they were—smugglers and scavengers, low-life space trash, but they had helped us and we were grateful. However, our systems detected that they decided to—ahem—acquire a piece of the wreckage. They had it for a couple of hours, then when we scanned it, it powered on. No American system I know of does that. It must have been… not ours.”

  “Right,” said Blackwood. “And the Reardons must have detected the scan and gotten spooked, because they executed a Z-space translation before we could even talk to them.”

  “And I want to know why. Why did that piece of tech just … turn on, when we scanned it? American technology doesn’t have a habit of doing that, unless they’ve got something up their sleeve I’m now aware of. And when the Reardons saw it turn on, why did they turn tail and run?”

  “They’re smugglers, ma’am. Lowlifes. Why wouldn’t they run?”

  “Something doesn’t add up for me.” Spears shook her head. “There was something odd about that piece of tech. From what we can tell, it was just a computer core. Not even the Stennis’s main computer. But … it just … turns on? And the Reardons make a break for it when it does? No. Something’s off.”

  Blackwood didn’t seem convinced. “It could have been anything, Ma’am,” she said. “Any number of pieces of military equipment would sell for quite the sum in Chrysalis, or any of the scummy places in the galaxy. Who knows.”

  That she could not contest. “I think it’s the Stennis’s main backup computer. It matches the size and weight. There were plenty of valuable things floating around that they could have stolen, but…” she clicked her tongue. “Backup or not, whatever they took, it made them scared when it turned on. Smugglers and scoundrels rarely get frightened. I want to know what can do that.”

  “Hmm. It’s your call, Ma’am.”

  Spears nodded firmly. “It is. And I want to talk to the Reardons about what they found. If it turns out to be nothing… well, at least we’ve maintained the combat readiness of this ship with a few drills.”

  “Then we definitely need Mattis’s help,” said Blackwood. “We’ve been out here for weeks, chasing down every single blasted ship out there without a transponder, or with an improperly filed flight plan, or just… seemingly searching anyone who crosses our path.” She gestured to the door, and through it, to the empty black sea of nothing. “Is this your plan, Captain? Just stumbling around randomly, hoping that amongst the hundred thousand or more ships out there, that one of them is a very specific ship with a very skilled crew who really, really, really do not want to be found?”

  That, she conceded, was a difficult position to defend. “I understand,” said Spears, cautiously. “But I’m not sure what else we can do. We don’t know if Captain Mattis is able to help us at all, and the poor man needs all the time he can get. He’s earned it, Blackwood. First his ship, then his son…”

  “I’m cognizant of his losses,” said Blackwood, evenly. “But face it, Captain. We need help.”

  “That we do.” She paused, considering. “The Caernarvon is ship-shape and Bristol fashion, her crew as well, but… we can’t fight the whole galaxy by ourselves, can we, Jemima?”

  Blackwood, to her credit, just stood there at ease, hands behind her back.

  “Fine,” said Spears, blowing out a low sigh. “But I don’t just want Mattis. He might have escaped prison, but there’s one member of his crew that didn’t.”

  “You want the pilot?” asked Blackwood, frowning slightly. “The Caernarvon carries shuttles, Captain. Not strike craft. What good is she?”

  “She,” said Spears, the seed of an idea forming in her head, “might well be crucial to this endeavor.”

  Blackwood nodded firmly. “I’ll make the call.”

  “Actually,” said Spears, “it’s probably best if I do it myself. Be a dear and plot a course to Earth.”

  Chapter Five

  San Diego

  California

  Earth

  For Mattis, the ride in the un-air-conditioned rear of the police van all the way to the San Diego Police Department was the longest, hottest, most uncomfortable, and most confusing drive he’d ever experienced. And it wasn’t just the heat or the tightness of his handcuffs.

  The police officers had read him his rights and explained the situation. President Schuyler was dead. Apparently. And only hours before she was due to meet with him. Because of that, he was now a ‘person of interest’. Detained for questioning. Not quite accused, but not quite free either.

  He couldn’t believe Schuyler really was dead. There had been so much to discuss… it didn’t make sense. Unless the meeting was connected somehow.

  Maybe Elroy would have some insight about this. It was strange to think that, having just spent two days locked in a moving metal box with him, being driven by a computer across the continental United States, he wouldn’t treasure half an hour alone. Yet, all he wanted was someone to talk to. Someone to puzzle over this development with. Someone to help him work through it.

  Suddenly, he missed Modi. He missed Lynch. He even missed Captain Malmsteen and everyone he’d ever had the pleasure of serving with or under. He wanted to get back into the field, into space, and talking to the president had been the first step in that process.

  But, evidently, that was going to have to wait.

  The van came to a halt, slowly but with enough force to make him rock to the side. All was quiet, save for occasional muttering from the driver’s compartment.

  The heat picked up. More than before. Without the motion of the van to help cool the metal, it was turning into a sweatbox fast.

  “Hey!” shouted Mattis. “How about letting me out of here, huh? It’s gotta be a hundred degrees!” Silence. Frustrated, he swung his foot out and kicked the side of the van. “Hey, c’mon!”

  The door unlatched and swung open. Cool air—or at least, cooler air than the baked atmosphere of the inside of the van—rushed in, and the sun’s glare made him squint. Eight police officers crowded the doorway, rifles pointed straight at him. Behind them, Elroy was there, still cuffed, flanked by two SWAT officers.

  “Out,” said an officer.

  Mattis complied, shuffling forward and out of the van, awkwardly dismounting with his hands cuffed behind him. Two policemen grabbed him, flanking him like they had done with Elroy, marching the pair of them off toward the loading bay.

  They were lead into the rear of the station, all eyes on the two of them. Mattis kept his back straight and his posture upright. He hadn’t done anything wrong, and wasn’t about to present the notion that he had.

  Mattis suspected, for a moment, that he was being led to the holding cells—probably a step up from the brig on the various ships he’d been staying in before the trial—but instead, he was taken to booking, straight to the front of the queue. They recorded his personal information—name, date of birth, service number—and then they took a photograph and a DNA sample. His pockets were emptied
, his body roughly searched, his rights were repeated to him and then he was lead away.

  He thought he would be taken to holding, but instead went straight to a room labelled Interrogation. Elroy was led away somewhere else. Holding, most certainly, or possibly another interrogation.

  Interrogation. Not a good word. Mattis took in the place with a cynical eye. The small, stark room was featureless apart from a waist-high table, three chairs, and a one-way mirror pane that took up most of the far wall. Mattis was placed in the single chair, opposite the glass, and his cuffs were attached to the table magnetically.

  “This is a bit much, isn’t it?” he asked the guard, dryly. “Do you know how old I am?”

  “I know who you are,” said the guard.

  Before he had a chance to argue the point, the door swung open again and a tall woman with a badge around her neck stepped into the room, taking the seat opposite him. She had a stony demeanor, obviously trying to compensate for her glaringly young and pretty face. She scowled at him from under her cropped blonde hair spiked up with gel.

  “I’m Special Agent Denelle Blair,” she said, flashing her bronze badge. “FBI.”

  He looked at her skeptically. A single rookie agent in a police station sent to investigate the assassination of the POTUS?

  She appeared to read his thoughts: “The agency’s got their own leads to follow up, and for now you’re my job.” She idly glanced over her shoulder at the one-way mirror, then zeroed back in on him. “I’ll be assisting the local police with the matter.” She smirked. “Don’t look so surprised, it’s happened before. After JFK was assassinated, the Dallas police had a big role in the immediate aftermath until the FBI formally took over the investigation. I’m here now and you’ll be dealing with me. That’s all you need to know for now.”

  He blinked at her. “Right.”